The Pure Cold Light

by Gregory Frost

  Mingo closed his eyes, summoning patience. Of course he could understand her misunderstanding. “Tell you what. Here’s the deal I’m offering. You show me where you got the useless biocard you have—oh, yes, your ‘brother’ got you arrested just now—” he flashed his security card in her face long enough to savor her terrified realization of what he represented “—you do that, and I’ll not only let you slide, I’ll hook you a trip to where you want to go.” He tapped his temple. “Enough even to reach ‘decay’ in, say, a week or two. How about that?”

  Frightened though she was, tears welled in Lucy’s eyes. “For me? That much? Really?”

  “No one else,” he promised. “I don’t want you—I’m after someone else.”

  She sniffed, wiped at one eye. “Git my house back,” she muttered. “I’ll need it, won’t I?”

  “Briefly.”

  She began stuffing her food into her mouth, more rabbitlike than ever. Chewing openly, she said, “He’s in my box right now, this guy.” From out of her clothes, she produced Gansevoort’s green card. Mingo plucked it and pocketed it mechanically, without taking his eyes off her. It felt gloriously good to shake somebody down. He could pretend she was his nemesis, that other woman.

  “This guy one of the bogeymen, is he?” Lucy asked.

  A smile tugged at his lips. “The king of bogeymen, Lucy, dear.”

  ***

  The first faint light of dawn was showing across the eastern sky as Lobly/Lyell climbed up to the cooking area.

  An arcade of thirteen arched enclosures stood to either side, and recessed inside each large enclosure lay a second, smaller one—a cubicle mimicking the larger space, with arches all around. The brick floors inside the cubicles had been removed and pits dug into the earth below. The roofs had been designed with round holes in them, and these proved to be ideal chimneys. What they had been intended for originally, no one could say, but they were perfect for drawing the smoke from the cooking fires of Box City.

  The larger, cloistral enclosures protected from the elements the piles of gathered tinder as well as the individual who tended each fire. Tenders made out very well in the hierarchy of the Boxers, especially in the winter: they were rewarded for their efforts with a portion of each Boxer’s meal. Over the years, the position had gained guild status and a certain mystique.

  Perhaps two hundred people stood or sat around on the three-sided marble steps of the quadrangle and on the recessed benches along the walls at the top. Their conversations lay upon each other, disconnected words and phrases sticking out like frayed ends. Lyell could see the glow of a half dozen TV screens. The quadrangle was wired with old video hookups; at one time city pageants had been put on here.

  Nearby, one thin TV screen sat propped on a bench, belching out bits of a broadcast—an animated feature with talking dolphins and sea gulls. People wandered in front of the screen, lingered, staring uncomprehendingly at the grainy, stolen signal.

  Crouched behind it, and clearly visible through the tilted glass whenever the picture faded, a skinny man was fiddling with the cable relay he had tapped. The picture sharpened momentarily, and a few halfhearted cheers went up.

  In the nearest cubicle, a good fire had been built up. This one had a cooking surface over it—which was nothing more than a stolen sewer grating fitted tidily inside the small square and resting on four heaps of bricks. The grating allowed the tender easy access both above and below, and that seemed quite practical to Lyell. All manner of pots sat atop it, bubbling, smoking, stinking. A few glowing, misshapen globs indicated where cheap pots had overheated.

  Lyell did not expect to find Angel himself among this crowd, only information about him. However, the very first person on the steps whom she asked about him sniggered, nudged her around, and pointed. There, up the steps and not twenty meters away, stood the man she had sought through both halves of the city—a dead man. She closed her hand over the pads above her elbow. Finally, Nebergall’s shoes had paid off.

  He had connected up with a short, hairy individual who was leading him along just outside the arcade, making loud introductions, and flashing what looked like a small gem, snatching it away when anyone made a grab at it. Fire tenders emerged down the line to look it over. They bartered and argued. The squat man shrugged and moved on to hear the next offer. He looked unsettlingly familiar to her, but she couldn’t place him. She had stared into too many faces during the past few hours and they were all jumbled together.

  She climbed up a few steps but hung back, watching it all, recording a scene acted out in nearly every country of the world every day.

  Then she heard Angel’s companion shout, “Not gonna be humans no more! Not humans no more! This here’s the next generation.” He placed his hand on Angel’s shoulder, Angel looking dismayed by this abrupt pronouncement.

  People began to gather around the two men; they got up off the steps and walked past Lyell. Some of them went up and touched Angel, as if he were a goodluck charm. They chattered among themselves, ignoring a dozen other conversations going on simultaneously. She lost sight of him behind the press of bodies.

  On the bench, the TV controller had gotten a steady picture on his portable screen. He switched to the Alien News Network and received a round of applause and cheers that drowned out most of the noise surrounding Angel. Distracted by the sound, the worshipful Boxers abandoned him and shuffled toward the screen.

  The short man began bellowing, trying to retrieve his audience. “My friends!” he yelled. “We’re talking about missions to Mars, colonies in space that never come down!”

  The first picture that came up on ANN was an aerial shot of ICS- IV.

  A sense of dread rose in Lyell. She started through the crowd toward Angel. Each time she glanced over, she saw another chilling image—mangled bodies being hauled away in bags; wounded students limping along in smoky halls, some of them falling and dying conveniently on camera. She knew what must be coming, and shoved harder to get through the crowd.

  The next time she looked, the screen had filled with a face: Angel Rueda’s face. Thank God, she thought, the sound isn’t working.

  A few members of the crowd beside her turned around, too, comparing the screen image with the man being touted as the “next generation.”

  Somebody shouted, “Shut up, Bucca,” and a dozen angry voices seconded the order.

  The noise level dropped, and in that portentous lull a thunderous, distorted sound flooded the area. The audio signal had kicked in.

  “—responsible for the deaths. His organization, known to ScumberCorp as Xau Dâu, has already taken full responsibility for the riot. The incident represents the first time this organization is known to have acted upon an entity other than the corporation itself. Rueda, its leader, escaped the scene, using this woman, the school’s principal, to navigate through the city.” A second still, of Chikako Peat, dropped in beside Angel, along with fake securicam footage of him shoving her roughly down a hallway in front of him. “We have a report now that he has since murdered her in cold blood and fled into the lower levels of city. At that time, he was wearing this electronic mask as a disguise.” Chikako’s face was replaced by the all-too-familiar icon of gentleness. “Called a LifeMask, it’s assigned to teachers in the high-risk inner city schools, such as the one Ms. Peat governed.” The mask faded, and the original, half-mechanical face appeared.

  “It’s him.” The word spread, more and more people turning around, staring at the color screen, seeing Angel there, comparing the image with the reality. “You hear what they said? He’s a terrorist murderer—he’s killed hundreds. He’s killed kids.” Like a cord, the words were binding them together, into a mass. Into a mob.

  Lyell found herself caught in the thick of it.

  Mad Bucca cried, “Wait—tell me you aren’t buying that. You can’t be! That’s TV news. They only tell you what somebody wants you to hear!”

  “Our ANN experts have absolute proof that the Xau Dâu organization is
an alien collective,” droned the TV voice. “They’re bent on destroying the largest, most beneficial corporation on our planet as the first step toward world domination.”

  “He’s an alien, you hear!” someone shouted. “The one they’re looking for. Look at ’im.”

  Insisted Bucca, “Sure he’s an alien—he’s Machine Man. We built him. But you can’t have him, I get to take him in. I get my reward for him. I’m the one going to Mars colony, not you bastards. Git away!”

  Lyell shoved her way to the front row, and the angry crowd propelled her under the arcade roof. Bucca backed in beside her, slapping at the front row.

  Lyell grabbed Angel’s wrist. Reflexively, he looked from his hand to her; he didn’t recognize her. It showed in his eye. She said, “Come on, Angel, it’s time to go.”

  “Lyell?” he asked in amazement.

  “It’s ‘Lobly’ here. I’m lots of people today, just like you.”

  “Hey, he’s mine,” Bucca yelled. He abandoned his defensive position in the archway and shambled angrily into her path. “I seen Machine Man first. The reward belongs to me.”

  Ungoverned, the crowd, at the brink of coming together or dissolving, pressed in under the arch.

  The fire tender, who’d been too busy working to listen to ANN’s nonsense, stepped in their way, brandishing her cooking tongs, and shouted, “Here, what the hell you think you’re doing? Back off!” The mob stopped. She snapped the nasty tongs at them. “You have to pay to come under here—get that? Go tear down something else or I’ll put a torch to you.”

  “Let me have him, just for an hour,” Lyell urged Bucca. “Here,” and passed him the postcards she had acquired. “I’ll rent him from you.”

  “All you, too,” the tender snarled to the three of them. “You have to pay.” Angel handed her the remaining cube. “Well, okay. You bring food in or you want to buy?”

  “Buy,” Angel said. He knew without doubt that he didn’t have any food.

  Bucca, his lower lip jutting out, squinted at the top postcard, a sepiatone showing City Hall in its heyday, and then riffled the stack. His face expressed contortions of calculation. He said, “Ah, well, for an hour I guess it won’t hurt. But I stay with youse, make sure you don’t try to weasel nothing.”

  She tugged at Angel, who observed drily, “I’m not worth much, am I?”

  “Right at the moment, no. The reward he wants comes from Mingo.” Bucca started at the sound of that name.

  Angel said, “Mingo again.”

  “Wait, you,” someone at the forefront of the crowd yelled. “It’s that same bastard, I’m tellin’ you. Lookit the screen. The alien.” But they didn’t dare enter the arcade, and they couldn’t get the rear rows to cooperate and spread apart to offer the tender a view of the screen.

  A grubby hand grabbed at Lyell’s shoulder but she twisted free and moved deeper under the roof. The tender was kneeling, tossing legs of furniture on the fire. The fire had little colors in it, no doubt from the chemicals burning.

  Lyell said, “Stay with me, both of you.”

  “What about our food?” whined Bucca.

  She still had hold of Angel’s hand, and she pulled him away. Bucca reluctantly followed, yelling to the tender, “We’ll be right back.”

  Lyell hurried along, dodging other patrons, ignoring the complaints of other busy tenders. Outside, the crowd moved in pursuit, though not nearly as fast. They netted everyone who stood in their path, their numbers surging and churning. Bucca waved and bellowed fiercely at them to stay back.

  Lyell ducked beneath the last arch and ran for the north steps. They had beaten the crowd. She figured they had it made. They dodged between the flagpoles, and made it halfway down the steps before she saw the solitary figure in the narrow lane below.

  Even in the crepuscular gloom she knew his shape, his leanness, the smooth way he moved. She’d been expecting him ever since Grofé's but not here, not in the midst of this new nightmare. She was surprised that he would let her see him like this, then reminded herself that he wasn’t seeing her, but Lobly.

  She stopped, and Angel bumped against her. She gripped his hand hard. He followed her stare.

  Mingo’s features emerged out of the smoky dimness—blond hair, eyes pale as milk, a mouth set firmly but indicating nothing of the frustration that must be seething within; there was dried blood on his face, which made him look barbaric, like some Teutonic god come for a final reckoning. His black scarf fluttered like a banner. He drew up at the end of the lane, upon the edge of the bricks. Here, she thought, was the real Machine Man.

  Four steps above, the denizens of the Undercity towered like the cracking wall of a dam about to burst. The word “alien” stained their speech like a racial slur. Bucca stood in their forefront.

  Ahead and below, the pale Grim Reaper of ScumberCorp triumphantly contemplated the execution in progress.

  Lyell and Angel hovered midway between heaven and hell.

  Then suddenly Angel tore loose from her grip. She turned in time to see him bound up the steps and charge the crowd.

  Screaming in fearful hatred, they shoved back away from him. Then, with cries of, “Alien! Get him!” they enclosed him in their roiling mass.

  Chapter Twenty: Reigning Chaos

  All hell broke loose in an instant.

  Mingo saw his prey devoured by the mob, and he sprang up the steps.

  As he passed by the blue-turbaned figure who’d been with Rueda, the fellow threw a sudden, skillful punch that caught Mingo in the ear. Teeth grinding, he staggered to the side but managed not to fall off the steps.

  He charged his tall assailant, grabbed fistfuls of loose, striped robes, and hurled.

  Lobly/Lyell tripped up the steps and caught herself against a narrow opening in the wall near the top; then, with a quick turn, shot up the steps and tried to escape into the melee.

  Mingo leaped forward and managed to snare the robe’s ragged tail. He yanked her back and himself up the final step. One driving punch snapped the dark, mustachioed head around like a top. A follow-up to the midsection doubled the body over, and a third uppercut lifted Aswad Lobly off the ground and straight back through the opening in the wall. The turban unwound, ejecting a bright blue fillet, which lingered momentarily in the air after Lobly dropped from view. The mustache, like a black butterfly, twirled in undetected spirals to the ground. Mingo faced about.

  He bounded the distance to the edge of the mob and began hammering at the nearest exposed necks, prying stunned figures, flinging them from his path, down the steps. They bowled others over, starting a second ruckus at the bottom. “Not again, damn you, Rueda,” he cursed. “This time I have you.” Rhythmically, he assaulted each impediment, a fist thrust on each beat.

  Somewhere nearby, someone tuned in a music broadcast, and an electronic orchestra erupted with a crazy Latino beat.

  He punched a large, incommodious shape, but when he pulled the man around, a hand the size of a packing crate responded, slamming into his temple twice—ba-boom!—in quick succession. He stumbled across the bricks, barely avoided plunging off the top step, and caught his balance against a rickety table where a scabious little man was selling purloined canned goods. Under his weight the table crashed, and the tinned wares bounced and rolled into the crowd. The owner shrieked, pouncing upon Mingo, spitting in his face, digging at him with filthy nails. Mingo dazedly weathered the assault for a moment; his head rang with whistles and bells. Then the man inadvertently clawed into the deep cut in his cheek, and the pain jolted him like current from a whirring dynamo.

  Mingo grabbed the man’s hair, hooked fingers under the stubbly jaw, twisted quickly and snapped his neck. A can of tuna spilled from the folds of the Boxer’s clothing, rolling across the bricks and down the steps. In the general unfolding chaos of bodies and debris, no one noticed the heap of another victim against the wall, where Mingo tossed him aside.

  Mingo put all of his weight on his wounded leg in order to kick the table
out of his way, and a hot bolt of agony shot through his thigh. He nearly fell but steadied himself before the leg collapsed.

  Unable to manipulate the raging mob before him, he dragged himself up on a stone bench for a better view over them. He searched for the gleaming lines of the crab, but he couldn’t see it anywhere in their midst. They must have pummeled Rueda to the ground, smashed him underfoot. He could hope.

  The turmoil seemed to be spreading like a contagion beyond the flagpoles. Mingo eased down off the bench and limped toward the center of conflict. He drew his gun, checking the grip, where a tiny panel displayed the number of rounds it held. The clip was full—he had filled it while trapped for hours in “security.” Nevertheless, it paid to be careful, to double-check. There weren’t going to be any more mistakes.

  He next calculated the size of the crowd. It was conceivable that he might have to spray them all in order to confirm Rueda’s death. Whatever it took. That he might not kill Rueda was unthinkable, unacceptable even as a remote possibility. Suicide was preferable. He had to see this pursuit through to the end. The grinding pain in his thigh would keep him alert to his purpose.

  Once again he tried to thread himself into the midst of the melee. The steroidal gorilla who had cuffed him had wandered off. Nevertheless, the outer ranks closed tighter before he reached them, as if resentful of his attempted intrusion. He scowled and contemplated shooting the nearest Boxers. Nothing was more demeaning than being ineffectual.

  Before he could make up his mind, a wonderful and miraculous thing occurred—the crowd began to disperse of its own accord.

  The tight knot of people unraveled slowly, drawing away from the core. Mingo held the Ingram tight by his side, ready for the instant when he spotted his adversary. Nearer and nearer he edged toward the epicenter. More and more people pulled away, like shrapnel thrown off by an explosion. The fight had gone out of them; they didn’t know what to do or where to go next. In fact some of them seemed to be fleeing. Whatever the cause, he brushed past them with no trouble. The frenetic dance tune cut off in mid-note.